


Live In Your Heart

by ryry_peaches



Series: Tumblr Prompt Fills [1]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Gift Giving, M/M, Moving In Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:54:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23887792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryry_peaches/pseuds/ryry_peaches
Summary: David and Patrick unpack with some help from Stevie.-David puts on music — he's made a playlist just for this day, full of high-energy, multigenerational pop, Tina and Britney and Mariah all sharing space.  At some point Patrick logged into their shared Spotify — purely an economic choice; David didn't want Patrick's music fucking up his Wrapped, but that's not really worth ten bucks a month — and added Mumford and Sons and Bryan Adams and the Beach Boys, because Patrick has no sense of thematic or genre consistency.  It's fine, he supposes; when you love someone, you're willing to compromise for them.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Series: Tumblr Prompt Fills [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1735951
Comments: 11
Kudos: 143





	Live In Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

> For @i-dont-even-effing-know-anymore over on Tumblr, who asked for David and Patrick unpacking in the new house. Title from one of my very favorite old songs, Forever by The Beach Boys.

"We're not setting up the wifi yet," Patrick says. He's got his Stern Face on, which usually means fun things, but sometimes, unfortunately, means that David will be required to do work. This seems to be one of those times.

"But babe," he says, wheedling, "how will I order pizza if I don't have wifi?" He brandishes his phone. "I ran out of data in New York last week." He went with Alexis to help her settle in — it's been a strain, her moving right before he and Patrick were set to, and he's frankly exhausted, physically and emotionally. "We promised Stevie pizza," he adds, as if he can convince Patrick that his motivation is purely selfless.

Patrick plucks the phone right out of his hand. "I'll call them," he says. "You remember, how we ordered pizza back in the nineties? By calling?"

"Ugh, don't remind me." David leans back against a towering stack of boxes, ignoring Patrick's pained look, and sighs heavily. "Alright, fine. We might as well get this done. Bedroom first, or kitchen?"

"We can put Stevie on kitchen duty when she gets here," Patrick says. "Bedroom now." He pauses for a moment, and then smiles slowly, like he can't help it. "Our bedroom," he says, and David wouldn't generally describe Patrick as a particularly jovial person, but he looks downright giddy.

David honestly can't blame him, feels that a little bit too, at the words. He's spent a lot of time at Patrick's place, and for the last month or so he's lived there fully, barring his four days in New York with Alexis. But it was still _Patrick's place,_ no matter how at-home David made himself there. (Very.)

This is their place. David and Patrick's home. David and Patrick's bedroom.

"Our bedroom," he agrees, and grabs a box, following Patrick down the hall.

Their bedroom is, thus far, more or less a big empty cube. There's a weird alcove with the window in it that Patrick has been insisting he wants a window seat for, and the master bathroom door is on the wall kitty-corner to the bedroom door. David has been pleased (thrilled) to note that the whole thing comes with a lovely little walk-in closet; it's not huge, but it's easily three or four times the size of the closet back in Patrick's studio.

The movers brought in Patrick's bed yesterday and set it up against the far wall, and David and Patrick slept on the mattress on the floor at Patrick's place. "Okay, first things's first," David says, dropping his box in the middle of the floor. Patrick pointedly pushes it against a wall, and David ignores him. "Where are the sheets? Because we can not sleep on dirty sheets our first night in the new house, Patrick."

"Actually," Patrick says, "about that." He's barely trying to hide a shit-eating grin, and it makes David immediately wary.

"What," he says heavily.

"Okay, don't be mad," Patrick says, which tells David that he probably should be, "I should have talked to you probably but I wanted it to be a surprise," and he rushes through the words to keep David from interrupting. "I used all the money my grandparents gave us for our wedding and bought that flax-linen Pottery Barn set you wanted."

David gasps, because he _has_ wanted that bed set so badly — fair trade linens in gorgeous soft sandy beige — but Patrick has insisted every time David has argued that it's frivolous to spend more than a hundred dollars on sheets. Their current sheets are from Target. "Like, the sheets —"

"The whole bed set," Patrick says, looking inordinately pleased with himself. "The sheets, the duvet and shams — I didn't get the dust ruffle because my bed frame —" But David doesn't get to hear about the dust ruffle because he's quite literally launching himself into Patrick's arms and kissing him.

Patrick makes a soft, surprised noise, not quite a laugh, and lifts his hands to hold David by the waist. He pulls back just a little, letting David kiss down his jaw, to say, "So you're not mad?"

"Linen sheets," David mumbles against his Adam's apple. He pulls back to smile down at Patrick, and Patrick is smiling back, radiant in a way that David never saw him before they got engaged, a way that he's seen more and more since they decided to buy the house. "Okay," he says, schooling himself, because if they do what he wants to do — which is tackle Patrick onto the bare mattress in their empty bedroom and thoroughly christen the house — then they'll never get to all the things they have to do. "Well, where are the new sheets, because they have to be washed before we can use them."

Patrick helps David wrestle the new bedding out of its insane packaging, and then builds a little fort in the tiny laundry room out of all the cardboard while David starts a load. He's relieved every second that the previous owners left their washer and dryer — they're both done with public laundry for the foreseeable future.

They grab another box each to haul into the bedroom on the way back down the hall; the bed and dressers are there already, and a single bookcase. David has already been in to clean the closet and repaper the shelves in there, and they've agreed that they don't want to paint the bedroom; it came a creamy off-white that feels warm and soft, somehow. David puts on music — he's made a playlist just for this day, full of high-energy, multigenerational pop, Tina and Britney and Mariah all sharing space. At some point Patrick logged into their shared Spotify — purely an economic choice; David didn't want Patrick's music fucking up his Wrapped, but that's not really worth ten bucks a month — and added Mumford and Sons and Bryan Adams and the Beach Boys, because Patrick has no sense of thematic or genre consistency. It's fine, he supposes; when you love someone, you're willing to compromise for them.

"'Framed wall art and photos - bedroom,'" Patrick says out loud, reading off the Sharpie label on a box. "Maybe we should save this one until we've got the basics together?"

"Okay," David agrees over an infuriatingly long banjo solo. "This one is your books?" Patrick gestures and David slides it over, watches him produce a knife from his pocket and slice open the top.

By the time Stevie strolls through the door, helpfully using her emergency key, they've mostly got the bedroom together. The mattress pad and sheets are on, with the duvet set in the dryer, and Patrick's books and David's books are commingled on the shelf, which David is alarmingly pleased by — they're _married,_ but the sight of his Virginia Woolf next to Patrick's weird old books about Navy ships makes him feel warm from the inside out.

"I picked up the pizza," Stevie shouts. "You owe me forty bucks in reimbursement!"

David skids down the hall, eager for pizza, with Patrick behind him.

"How in the name of god did you spend forty bucks on pizza?" Patrick wants to know.

Stevie shrugs, hugging him as David relieves her of the boxes. "I got garlic knots."

"And cheese bread," David says gleefully, spreading the boxes on the table. "And one of those big cookies."

Patrick sighs after him but dutifully digs three beers out of the fridge. (They set up all the appliances and TVs yesterday.) (All that's in the fridge so far is beer, a single head of lettuce, and a few bottles of green juice.) David accepts his beer with minimal distasteful nose-scrunching.

They make short work of lunch, and Patrick sets Stevie up in the kitchen with a roll of shelf paper and more boxes than he'd ever thought he could fill with kitchen stuff; the dishes from his apartment, of course, and then they'd gotten a lot of the classic appliance wedding gifts: a brand new blender, a four-slice toaster ("but what will you use?" David had asked), an upright mixer, a block of knives with marble handles that Patrick is actually thrilled with.

David finishes making the bed, and then he just stands and stares at it for a second; he can't wait for Patrick to sleep with him in these sheets in this bedroom, but he also can't wait for Patrick to cuddle with him in this bed. Watch movies with him. Hold him close and fall asleep with an arm slung low over his waist.

Patrick comes up behind him and settles warm hands on his hips, and David leans back into the touch. "Stevie and I want to get started on the living room," Patrick says, hooking his chin over David's shoulder. "You just about done in here?"

David crosses his arms across his own waist and takes Patrick's hands, swaying. One of Patrick's songs is playing from David's tiny speaker. _I've been so happy loving you,_ Dennis Wilson croons into the space, less echoey than it was earlier before they got their pictures up. He looks around at their new room; the receipt from their first date is already on the bookshelf, and there's a framed poster for that first open mic night, and one from Alexis' singles week. These are all things from Patrick's apartment; all this time, he's been collecting little souvenirs for them. Stepping stones tracing the path of their relationship. There's a framed wedding invitation, too, and photos: from the store opening, Patrick's birthday, their bachelor party, their wedding.

Even after David landed in Schitt's Creek without a paddle, if he'd been asked to describe his future, he would have crafted a life more or less like the one he'd left: galleries and parties, a drugged-out A-list entourage, globetrotting in the wake of Alexis' endless stream of near misses. He never could have imagined this: a house in a small town, a business heavily patronized by flannel-clad locals, a single friend who loved him enough to help him move. Alexis settled in one place, his parents settled in another, weekly Facetime calls.

Five gold rings on his fingers, the most beautiful man he's ever seen in Costco jeans, holding him and swaying and singing softly in his ear: _"Forever, together my love…"_ A sedan that clicks in the driveway, blueprints for a vegetable garden. All the Ricky-and-Lucy trappings of a good life, things he never would have expected to love.

 _"You won,"_ Stevie told him a few months ago, when he brought her here to sit in the driveway and pour out his heart. And David can hear her clanking dishes together downstairs, and Patrick is warm against his back, and the song is fading out the way that slow seventies rock does, and David knows, bone-deep, unshakeably, that she was right.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it, love! The one about wedding presents is on the way. As always, I'm available on Tumblr @fourgetregret and @loveburnsbrighter, and right now I'm happy to take one-shot prompts, as I'm distracting myself from *gestures vaguely.*


End file.
